The Heights, and The Depths

I wrote this two days ago, and posted it in my normal blog; I thought it would be fitting to put it in here, too.
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I'm glad today got gray. As the sun went down, the clouds gathered a bit more, hiding the blue sky behind their wintry blanket. I meandered across campus, going from office to office getting signatures for my leave of absence form. The air was cool, the leaves were golden, and as I walked past the library, I mused about how the delicate white flowers in the bushes looked, at first glance, like bits of tissue paper strewn among the leaves.

I had lunch with my mentor, Dr. Vincent today. It was nothing short of wonderful. She treated me to In-N-Out, a fitting farewell meal, as she put it, since we don't have In-N-Outs in New Mexico. We talked about marriage, and Paul, and school, and theatre, and "The Dining Room".

Dr. Vincent began talking about how things in this life, while tainted by sin, can still be "tastes of heaven"; I think it stemmed from our discussion on marriage. Marriage, we agreed, is a sanctifying tool given to us by God. As Paul encourages his churches to do in his letters, spouses in marriage are not to simply endure trials, or each other's faults, but they are to actively pursue righteousness. As a wife, I am not to think, "I must suffer through my husband's faults and failures." Rather, I am to think, "How can I work with and around those things in order to serve him and purify us both?"

This life is not all about just getting to the next life. We can still have good things now, we can still be good people, friends, spouses, servants, now. I think, in a way, that's what Paul means when he says that marriage is to be an example of Christ's love for the church; we are still sinful, yes, and not fully perfect as we one day will be, but as Christ became our servant in order to make us righteous, we are to serve each other and help sanctify each other. We are saved by faith, not by works, but faith without works is dead. Faith in Christ justifies us; works in Christ sanctify us. In these ways, marriage is a taste of God's perfect love.

We talked about heaven. Dr. Vincent said that the times she most often wants Christ to come back is when she is feasting with friends. There is something about gathering together, around a huge, delicious meal, surrounded by people that you love, that tastes like heaven. She said she often wishes that all of her friends were there, and her whole family, too. She longs for everyone she's ever known and liked, and even those she hasn't liked because there were differences between them. She would love to have the time to see past those differences and to really get to know them. Time to sit, and be together, and shoot the breeze; to talk about things that are important, and things that aren't; to, as she put it, "sit in a corner with them, and eat nuts and berries."

I told her about our Gregory of Nyssa Christmas party, last Saturday at Laura's house. We didn't really think about it at the time, but looking back I think most of us have realized that it was likely one of the last times we'll all be together as our original group; the last time for a long time, at least. It's that same feeling she described; there is something about gathering together with loved ones around a feast that seems so heavenly. Those spaces and times in which we can enjoy each other's company, eat, laugh, or just sit together, content; in some small, shadowy way, that must be what heaven feels like.

Except, in heaven, there will be no need for goodbyes, and we will never feel rushed. We will never run out of time to get to know each other, or to say everything we want to say. As Sheldon Vanauken says in his painfully beautiful A Severe Mercy,

"Golden streets and compulsory harp lessons may lack appeal - but timelessness? And total persons? Heaven is, indeed, home."

I've said a lot of goodbyes lately. I said what will probably be my final goodbyes to some people in my group last Saturday. I cried.

After our long lunch, I decided on a whim to see if Mayers Auditorium was empty. It was. Devoid of people, but full of memories. I sat on the stage for a good half hour, the stage on which me and the rest of "The Dining Room" built characters, confidence, and friendships. I soon realized that I wasn't just sitting, I was waiting; I kept looking toward the door, expecting cast or crew members to walk in at any second. It felt unnatural to be in there alone.

And I cried. But it wasn't a bad thing; in fact, I think it was a good thing. All the talk about life and marriage and the show had gotten a little emotionally overwhelming, and I just needed to let it out. I began to realize how much I'll miss my friends here, and how the love I have for them makes these goodbyes all the harder. It's painful, but it's a joyful pain, and I think that kind of pain is the sharpest. It reminds me that we're not home yet.

Thinking of everything Dr. Vincent and I had talked about, I couldn't help but remember Megan's final monologue in the play:

"Lately, I've been having this recurrent dream. We're giving the perfect party. We have our dining room back, and grandmother's silver, before it was stolen, and Charlie's mother's royal blue dinner plates, before the movers dropped them, and even the fingerbowls, if I knew where they were. And I've invited all of our favorite people. Oh, I don't just mean our old friends, but everyone we've ever known and liked. We would have the man who fixes our toyota, and the intelligent young couple who just bought the Peyton place; the receptionist at the doctor's office, and the new teller at the bank. And our children would be invited, too, and they'd all come back from wherever they are. And we've have two cocktails, and hot hors d'ovueres, and a first rate cook in the kitchen and two maids to serve, and everyone would get along famously.

My husband laughs when I tell him this dream. 'Do you realize,' he says, 'how hard it would be to throw a party like that? Do you realize how much a party like that would cost?' Well, I know. I know all of that. But sometimes, I think it just might be worth it."

I am not afraid like I used to be; afraid of the unknown, afraid of failure. God has blessed me incredibly by giving me Jordan, and I'm excited for how he is going to use us to exemplify his love, sanctifying us through our marriage. He has also given me many friends, whom I love deeply; and so there is some pain in our parting. But it is a joyful pain.

Someday, these tastes of heaven will give way to the real thing, the complete, timeless perfection. And then, there will be no more bittersweet goodbyes, and the pain of homesickness will have been worth it. And we will all come back, from wherever we are.

A Fresh Perspective

I guess I'm just not used to going to bed early. I've been up for a while, working on my reflection; it's coming along, but it's proving to be more of a challenge than I expected.

Something silly I've been doing lately, and which I've gotten my castmembers hooked on doing, is to look up clips from other performances of "The Dining Room" online. I did it once before auditions, forever ago, but I didn't watch much. I'm glad I never found the ones I've found now, because I think since we were all coming to it with little to no knowledge of the play we were more able to make it our own, and to let ourselves be creative while not being influenced by someone else's interpretation.

It used to bother me that people would have flat reactions to me when I'd say I was in "The Dining Room", but the more I think about it, the more I'm glad that probably 99% of our audience had no idea what to expect. Granted, the lack of familiarity partly manifested in smaller audiences, but again, I'd rather have a small audience with zero preconceptions than a large one with their own boxes to break. That seems to be the challenge of much of modern Shakespeare, or for the play last fall, "Peter Pan"; trying to do something that's been done many times before in a way that's fresh and that gets the audience to think about it in a new way is it's own challenge.

"The Dining Room" has shown me many new ways to think about theatre, as an art form, and as an experience of growth and of human creativity, and so I hope that those who came to see it benefited from its newness as well.

Bittersweet

That's the best word to describe this day, this play, and, I truly believe, life.

I am very melancholy right now, and I know that every other single person who was involved in "The Dining Room" feels the same way. I saw every person in the cast today, if only briefly, and got hugs and exchanged warm words, but there's a quiet sadness hanging over everything.

I haven't written a lot about the performances until now. Mostly, it's been because I haven't had the time or energy; these past two weeks have been very full and tiring, almost exclusively in good ways.

None of the performances had any major problems, and even if things did go wrong, or the energy level was off, it was OK. One of the great things about this play, and this style of theatre, is that no show is exactly the same as any other. Julia always tells us to "do what feels right", as we are present and focused in the scene, which results in the scenes always being slightly different. We'll still move in the same general patterns, but if we can really listen to each other and be aware of each other, it's inevitable that we will act and react in different ways each time.

It was interesting to see how the play changed with each audience. The attitude of the audience is always very, very tangible. We had to learn to not expect certain reactions to certain lines, and one or two times I was thrown off when someone would laugh at a line I thought was serious, or when the audience would be silent at a line that usually gets laughs.

I think I'm developing a philosophy that good theatre, theatre as I believe it should be, should never look rehearsed. To focus on blocking, or saying a line exactly the same way or at the same tempo, or moving in the same way every time, all distracts from the real essence of the play, whatever play it is. In a way, it's hard to describe; it's not about hitting a cue, but it's about being present, living in the moment of the scene and, as Julia says, doing what feels natural within the framework of the scene.

My experience in "The Dining Room" has caused me to fall in love with theatre in an entirely new way; I have always loved theatre, but I have a much deeper, richer appreciation for it as an art form and as an expression of human creativity now. I believe that what makes theatre unique and beautiful and exhilirating is that it is a living, breathing thing, like the people that participate in it, and like the people who come to watch it, and that's why it's never the same and, hopefully, never boring. I also believe that anyone and everyone has the capability of having a great experience in theatre, which draws me toward amateur, community theatre more than anything professional.

I hope to be involved in theatre throughout my life, and I believe theatre is something that should be open to everyone, almost especially those who are amateurs. It's not about being a "theatre person"; it's about being human, and theatre is one of many activities that allows us to explore what that means.

Learning to Love Change

I really do need to get to bed, but after rehearsal my mind is just racing with adrenaline and, well, theatre thoughts. I've just got to write something.

Last night was wonderful beyond words. We started off as we always do, by just hanging around, waiting for everyone to show up and settle down. My dad had brought a digital video camera for me from home, and I used the last few minutes of its battery life to get some shots of us sitting around, talking, laughing. I'm going to take it to rehearsal tomorrow and have it close by all weekend, to get some behind-the-scenes footage of the show, as well as some concrete memories.

We didn't do a lot of actual "rehearsal" stuff; just some brief vocal and physical warm-ups. We all tried to play "ninja", but Julia begged us to start doing vocal warm-ups. So, still in our ninja poses, we began yawning. Then we were told that we could not play "ninja" onstage, near the rented, expensive props. Sadly, we relented.

When that was finished, we sat in a circle on stage, all of us - cast, crew, directors - and began what Julia told us would be our very last feelings time. I was sad to hear it, but I have to say it sure was a good final feelings time.

One thing I observed that really warms my heart is the unity and love that is so tangible among those of "The Dining Room", not just the cast, but the crew as well. Early on I didn't feel it as much, since I was just getting to know half of the people I was working with, but last night it was really evident. As people were sharing, every now and then someone would say something lighthearted, and all of us would erupt in laughter and embark together on a brief tangent of joking and teasing. Then, all together, we would return to feelings time, after enjoying that break together. Jonny said something at one point that left me doubled over with laughter, although I can't quite remember what it was.

These humorous eruptions happened while I was sharing, too, but I didn't mind in the least bit. I sat back and smiled, thankful for the people God has blessed me with in this show, people who can be serious with each other, but also silly with each other. People who work hard, but also play hard. People who are united by more than just a love for theatre, but a love for people, a love for each other, and, most importantly, a love for God.

"The Dining Room" has really caused me to fall in love with theatre in an entirely new way. It has been beneficial to me personally, and has allowed me, for the first real time in my life, to feel like an artist, which is something I think I have been longing for, deep down inside of me. I have never invested so much of myself into a show before, but the payoff is well worth the late nights and early mornings, because I know I have grown in so many ways, and I have made friendships that will not soon fizzle out.

But that's not all I've learned. I have come to realize that theatre is a great and unique space in which multi-faceted and layered aspects of humanity can come together. It brings people together who wouldn't normally be together (why I love amateur theatre); it is a place to work, to play, to explore, to imagine, to be serious, to be silly, to be thoughtful, to be impulsive. A play is a living, breathing thing, just like, and in many ways, because of the humans in it and the humans in the audience. No performance is the same, no scene is the same, because we are performing in live space and live time, and the very fact that something is alive means that it is constantly changing. Every audience changes the play a little bit, and the excitement of the actor is not knowing exactly how their scenes will go, because within the framework of what we have been given and what has been rehearsed, there is always space to change.

That's how I feel personally about acting; within the framework of the lines, and the direction, and even the props, we are free to move and create as we will, and there is no rule that says everything has to be the same every time. In fact, in many cases, if it is the same every time, we are ceasing to truly experience theatre; we are no longer creating "live" art, but simply performing "done" art, like a movie. It is a challenge, but I think I'm learning to embrace that challenge, rather than to fear it.

I am so thankful to God for creating us as creative beings; we are thinking, breathing, curious, feeling creatures, and theatre, I feel, is such a perfect place to learn about what it really means to be human, and to explore the many, many different ways God has given us in which to express that.

Feel the Love!

I was very sad that rehearsal was only scheduled from 9:00 to 10:30 tonight, but happy for me we only just split up, and it's half past midnight! Not so happy for the boys who have to write seven page research papers for tomorrow, Lord have mercy, but I just love my cast and crew so much. Staying up an extra two hours is worth the time of fellowship and laughter that we had tonight.

It was a very informal "rehearsal"; the only actual rehearsal part we did was about half an hour of vocal and physical warm-ups. We spent the remaining two and a half hours or so having "feelings time", sharing our thoughts about opening weekend, and about our experience in the play in general. I am so thankful for the time and space we had to do so, something we probably won't have again before the play is over.

I love these people so much, I could stay up all night with them. Oh wait, I've done that!

Open-Ended

I'm writing this post immediately after publishing the last one. I decided to split things up so I wouldn't have one ridiculously long blog post.

Jordan and I talked for a long time after the performance last Saturday night. He was really impacted by it; he told me that he felt really faced with a lot of his own sins reflected by the pain and choices of the characters in the play. He was reminded of the depravity of humanity.

It was interesting to hear his side of things; I'm obviously more affectionate toward the characters and the play, but Jordan was really effected by it emotionally; he said the intermission was a much needed emotional break.

The play is very heavy in a lot of ways. There is a lot of humor in it, but almost every scene is juxtaposed with serious issues and problems. No character is simple, no dialogue lacking depth. These snapshots of different lives I think can resonate with almost everyone; there are feelings of loss and shame, of hopelessness and hope, of sadness and confusion, of anger and fear. The most basic human emotions are represented by Gurney's characters.

Jordan and I compared and contrasted the scenes of Kate and Gordon (affair) and Peggy and Ted (birthday party). Kate and Gordon are obviously dirty, and there is something wrong about their relationship, based on sin and lies. Peggy and Ted I've always been more affectionate toward, partly because of my own biases because I play Peggy, partly because I feel that there is something tender and cute in their relationship. They haven't done anything wrong, even though they are openly discussing their feelings for each other, both as married adults with children and responsibilities.

I've thought about it more, and talked with Dr. Vincent about it, and as much as I feel that Peggy and Ted are meant to be more endearing to the audience, they are not entirely virtuous. The "resolution" in the scene comes from them feeling it would be too messy to try and be together, and they "resolve" to endure and try to press on in spite of their feelings. Dr. Vincent made the interesting remark that the solution was not to encourage each other in their marriages, but to "suck it up", in a sense, and to continue to do nothing. Like just about every other scene in this play, Peggy and Ted are left somewhat unresolved.

To Create Something Magical

Over the summer, I listened to the audiobook version of Neil Gaiman's "'M' is for 'Magic'". It's a collection of short stories of his, and I really enjoyed it. Some of the stories are strange, and some are funny, and some are a little in appropriate for kids. What actually stuck with me the most from the book was the introduction, read by Neil Gaiman himself (as was the rest of the book). I'll copy it in here, because I listened to it again last night, and it got me thinking in similar ways about "The Dining Room":
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When I was young - and it doesn't really seem that long ago - I loved books of short stories. Short stories could be read from start to finish in the kind of times I had available for reading; morning break, or after lunch nap, or on trains. They'd set up, they'd roll and they'd take you to a new world and deliver you safely back to school or back home in half an hour, or so.

Stories you read when you're the right age never quite leave you. You may forget who wrote them, or what the story was called, or sometimes you might forget precisely what happened. But if a story touches you, it will stay with you, haunting the places in your mind that you rarely ever visit.

Horror stays with you hardest. If it brings a real chill to the back of your neck, if once the story is done you find yourself closing the book slowly for fear of disturbing something, and creeping away, then it's there for the rest of time. There was a story I read when I was nine that ended with a room covered with snails (I think they were probably man-eating snails) and they were crawling slowly toward someone to eat him. I get the same creeps remembering it now that I did when I read it.

Fantasy gets into your bones. There's a curve in a road I sometimes pass; a view of a village on rolling green hills and behind it huger, craggier, grayer hills, and in the distance mountains and mist, that I cannot see without remembering reading "The Lord of the Rings". The book is somewhere inside me, and that view brings it to the surface.

And science fiction (although, there's only a little of that here, I'm afraid) takes you across the stars and into other times and minds. There's nothing like spending some time inside an alien head to remind us how little divides us, person from person.

Short stories are tiny windows into other worlds and other minds and other dreams. They're journeys you can make to the far side of the universe and still be back in time for dinner. I've been writing short stories for almost a quarter of a century now. In the beginning they were a great way to begin to learn my craft as a writer; the hardest thing to do as a young writer is to finish something, and that was what I was learning how to do.

These days, most of the things I write are long: long comics or long books or long films, and a short story, something that's finished and over in a weekend or a week, is pure fun. My favorite short story writers as a boy are, many of them, my favorite short story writers now: people like Saki, or Harlan Ellison; like John Collier, or Ray Bradbury. Close-up conjurers who, with just twenty-six letters and a handful of punctuation marks could make you laugh and break your heart, all in a handful of pages. There's another good thing about a book of short stories: you don't have to like them all. If there's one you don't enjoy, well, there'll be another one along soon.

The stories in here will take you from a hard-boiled detective story about nursery rhyme characters to a group of people who like to eat things; from a poem about how to behave if you find yourself in a fairy tale, to a story about a boy who runs into a troll beneath a bridge, and the bargain they make. There's a story that will be part of my next children's book, "The Graveyard Book", about a boy who lives in a graveyard and is brought up by dead people. And there's a story that I wrote when I was a very young writer called, "How To Sell the Ponty Bridge", a fantasy story inspired by a man named Count Victor Lustig who really did sell the Eiffel Tower in much the same way, and who died in Alcatraz Prison some years later. There are a couple of slightly scary stories, and a couple of mostly funny ones, and a bunch of them that aren't quite one thing or another; but I hope you'll like them anyway.

When I was a boy, Ray Bradbury picked stories from his books of short stories he thought younger readers might like, and he published them as "'R' is for 'Rocket' and 'S' is for 'Space'". Now I was doing the same sort of thing, and I asked Ray if he'd mind if I called this book, "'M' is for 'Magic'"; he didn't.

"M" is for "magic". All the letters are, if you put them together properly. You can make magic with them, and dreams, and, I hope, even a few surprises.
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I love Neil Gaiman's comments on how stories stay with us; I've often thought of human beings as sponges, absorbing ideas and experiences that may not always be on the forefront of our minds, but they are always with us, inside of us, shaping us into the slightly new person we are each day.

I began to think about "The Dining Room" as a collection of short stories. It's certainly an applicable parallel; the play as a whole is a collection of short scenes, with unconnected characters and no continuous plot. While I think every scene is amazing, I'm probably biased, and I'm sure the audience has favorites and least favorites. Short stories may be "pure fun" to an experienced writer like Gaiman, but I think they would be challenging. Getting the reader interested, creating a coherent plot and characters with some depth is a fair challenge to rise to when you're working with ten or twenty pages. At least, I think so.

I feel that "The Dining Room" is a similar challenge, one that I've enjoyed working with. Gurney is able to reveal some real bits of humanity in his characters in a matter of five or six minutes of dialogue. What I love about theatre is that it's a team effort: as talented as Gurney is, it's not just his words that create these characters, but it's a combination of his script, Julia's direction, and our performances and choices as actors. Within the framework of Gurney's writing and Julia's direction is where I as a performer have the space to create and to express myself.

The entire process of theatre really seems magical to me, a unique experience and creative outlet that I believe every person, at some point in their lives, should utilize. What I love about it is that letters and words are not the only tools for creating the magic of live theatre; human beings are tools themselves, the pallets on which and through which and by which that mysterious, wonderful thing called "art" can be created. Our minds and hearts move our bodies through space and time, interacting with each other and with the characters, and, hopefully, finding some humanity in them with which to empathize. I think that's how "acting" can become real, and genuine, and only then is the audience truly impacted. No one is impressed by a mask, but when someone takes the mask off and reveals their real, vulnerable self - in this case, through the medium of Gurney's characters - that is what leaves people laughing, crying, or absorbed in thought.

One Thought In A Million: Opening Weekend

I can't believe the first weekend of "The Dining Room" performances is over! Overall, opening weekend was spectacular.

Opening night: so much energy! I could hardly focus on the last bit of homework I had to do before heading down to Mayers Auditorium to get ready for the special outdoor show in the library courtyard. I popped into my friends' Bible study (that I'm usually a part of, but not last Thursday!) and they all prayed over me and for the show. When I walked into Mayers a short while later, the first thing Megan and I did when we saw each other was start screaming with excitement.

Most of the call time was taken up by transporting props, sets and other set-up stuff from the auditorium to the courtyard, and then setting everything up once it got there. Things were going smoothly, and the excitement was building. About half an hour before the audience was to begin milling in, we gathered to run through a couple of scenes, just to make sure we knew how to work with our considerably smaller stage. Backstage (that is, behind a black curtain on the side of the stage) I looked across the way at Jonny. He made a ninja pose, and I moved to do the same; not paying attention, I moved my foot and knocked over one of the prop wine glasses, snapping the head clean from the stem.

For a few minutes, people slightly freaked out, and I felt absolutely horrible. James, the stage manager, was wonderful about it, though; after we had sorted everything out he came to ask if I was OK, and to assure me that these things happen, and that everyone was more upset that the glass had broken than that I had broken it. I admitted that I had been messing around, but he was unphased. "It's not your fault that you weren't thinking about where you moved your foot," he said. It's interesting that I remember so much about this one little bad thing that happened on an otherwise great, great night; it really resonates with me how gracious everyone was in spite of my carelessness. I am increasingly thankful for the people I have been fortunate enough to work with in this play; everyone is not only extremely talented and hard-working, but loving, and genuine, and in this case, calm and bracing.

The rest of the night went off without a hitch. Someone said it was the former director's motto that there always has to be a minor crisis before the show, so maybe the broken wine glass was our bit of good luck. Every scene felt the best it had so far, and the audience was great. It wasn't a huge crowd, which was good, because if the courtyard was full not everyone would have been able to hear or see us. They laughed a lot, and it made me realize how funny this play actually is, in spite of the serious elements that accompany almost every scene. It's certainly not a comedy, but almost every scene in Act I got laughs. I think I like the humor almost better than a comedy, because it's juxtaposed with solemnity, and intermixed within the problems and happenings of the characters' lives. Life is not a comedy, but life has funny moments, and I think that's sort of how "The Dining Room" is funny. Things are certainly funnier when you're not trying to be funny, but when they just happen, and that's how humor comes out in the play: the characters are just being themselves, which happens to be quirky and funny sometimes.

Nick and I have several scenes together, one of which we refer to simply as "Jim and Meg". It's a scene between an older father and his thirty-ish daughter, and overall it's very complex and sad. There is a lot of tension between our characters; the scene finds the daughter confessing all of her problems to her father, and then practically begging him to let her come home and try to start over. From the beginning we've both been challenged by it, but after Thursday night we both agreed that it had felt like our best performance yet.

I could write on and on about Jim and Meg; I've spent a lot of time thinking about that scene, and it's really come to feel like the climax of the show for me. It is my last significant scene, but it's by far been my most challenging. I want Meg to seem genuine, but not overdone or simply shocking in her (somewhat shocking) confessions. I really empathize with her feelings of confusion and failure and hopelessness, and I think everyone can. At the same time, Jim cannot be pegged as the "bad guy", the cold, distant father. He is more complex than that; I think a large part of the tension between the two is that he, for a good part of the scene, simply can't understand that his daughter's life is as messy as it sounds. He keeps pushing simple solutions on her, but it takes a while for him to see that hers are not simple problems, or simple feelings.

Life is not simple, or as simple as it used to be. That idea, I think, can be applied more broadly to the entire play. "These are different times", is how one character puts it. Humans are always changing, moving forward; that's life. And sometimes we can't start over, but we can always move forward, in the best way that we can.

And so it begins!

I have to get ready for our second performance, but I wanted to jot down the snapshots I remember from our ABSOLUTELY AMAZING opening night last night!

- Texting Jonny to tell him how excited I was, and laughing at his response: "Hellsyeah! Shark bait, ooh ha ha!"
- Carrying props/sets/furniture/bags from Mayers into the library courtyard, roughly three hours before curtain.
- Screaming with excitement with Megan, and scaring James because he thought the set was falling over on us.
- Running to get AAA batteries from the bookstore, and jumping up and down with excitement when I ran into some friends in the coffee shop.
- Making innuendos with Chelsea as she tried to pin my skirt after saying, "This might sound weird, but I'm going in under your skirt."
- Breaking one of the wineglasses not an hour before we were supposed to start, feeling terrible, then feeling bolstered by how kind everyone was about it.
- Doing vocal warmups with the cast before the audience came in, and laughing about how we were likely bothering/scaring the students trying to study in the library.
- Julia praying over us, thanking God for this opportunity to create art.
- Peter popping backstage during intermission to say, "I know I'm breaking rules, but I love you all!"
- Jim and Meg: the best yet.
- Trying not to laugh during the Standish scene, which is easily the funniest scene of the whole play.
- Feeling very awkward after our bows, as we walked off stage and past everyone at their tables.
- One awesome, huge group hug with Julia when it was all over.
- More hugs from everyone who came, Gregory people, Magician's nephew people.

A Family Affair

Tonight is our last dress rehearsal before we open tomorrow!

Julia said something last night that I though was great, and really true. We gathered together as a cast, in full dress for the first time, and did some calming stretches and breathing together. Then we formed a tight circle, so tight that we were each touching the people on either side of us. Julia told us to take three deep breaths together, and then she told us to stay focused. In her calm voice, she said that when we are onstage we need to remember to be focused, to love and enjoy the people we're with onstage, and to have fun.

"That's how I think we can worship God through theatre," she said, "by enjoying the bodies he has given us, and the people he has given us."

I am excited and sad for the show to open. Excited, because rehearsals have gone so well, and this is the climax of all we have been working toward for the past two months. Sad, because this is the beginning of the end of one of my best experiences here at Biola. As I said before, I've grown in confidence and in eagerness to learn and explore and experiment with my body and my mind and my creative faculties. And I've grown to truly love all of the people I've worked with in "The Dining Room". I love that the cast is so small; big ensembles are fun, but the fact that there's only six of us makes the sense of comradery even stronger. No one is a minor character, we are all leads, and we are all vital.

This play is so centered around families and relationships, it's only fitting that the cast and crew have begun to feel like a family, in a way. I don't know what I'll do with myself when I don't have rehearsal every night.

To Be Surprised

"Do something that reminds you of the goodness of God."

This was a possible pull question for our reading on Calvin. I didn't do it as an assignment, but I had it in mind when I went to rehearsal yesterday. Being in this play has definitely been a reminder of God's goodness.

I feel I have grown in so many ways.

Relationally: I've made friends that I otherwise never would have known and probably never have met. And there's something about working, thinking, and playing hard together that provides a strong bond between humans. That's something I've really grown to appreciate about the Torrey program as a whole; I read and study and discuss and eat and socialize and relax and now I exercise my mind, body and creative side with these same people. I feel very well-rounded.

Personally: The play has given me greater confidence. There is something so freeing about not feeling like I have to do or act any certain way. For the first few weeks of rehearsals, we worked on breaking down those self-imposed boundaries, in numerous ways. Of course, we are working within a framework of the director's, well, direction, and now within the framework of our characters and scenes, but inside of that we are free to feel free, and that is where actors can create. Something Julia is constantly telling us is that we should do what feels natural (within that framework). I've carried that sentiment with me into my day-to-day life; I still have awkward moments and social faux pas, but I feel less controlled by what others think, or what I think others think.

Creatively: I've experienced theatre this semester in ways that I never have before. In high school, theatre was fun, but I never really delved into it like I have with "The Dining Room". I've learned that it is a transforming experience, one that doesn't start with memorizing lines or having the right props; those things come toward the end. As an actor, I must begin with myself, learning to be free with my body, my voice, my mind. It's learning about that freedom I was talking about, and learning to be aware of the feelings and energy that drive me and that drive my cast members. With the performances drawing near, I'm interested to see how things change when we have the audience's energy, too. It makes a huge difference, and it's something I think is fascinating and wonderful about theatre; every performance is different, depending on how the actors feel and the choices they make, and also depending upon the audience's energy and reactions. As performers, we are not only interacting with each other on stage, but we have been doing all of this work to prepare to give something to the audience, and to interact with them as well.

In a way, it feels hard to pinpoint exactly what I've learned, or exactly what has happened in the process of this play. But in a way, that's kind of how theatre, and art, seems to be. I know there are specific things about my characters and about this play that I see and want to convey to the audience, but just like anything that is human, it is ever-changing, ever-growing. In rehearsals, Julia tells us to surprise ourselves, with our movements and choices. Never be rehearsed, never be old, never be dull. That's what's so great about theatre; because it's never the same, for anyone involved, you never know what will surprise you.

Back to God's goodness: theatre, for me, is an example and an outlet to explore the multi-faceted aspects of humanity. I praise God that he has made us diverse creatures, with diverse talents and interests. I can't pin down one thing about this play, or this experience, that is the meaning or purpose or goal. And I can't pin down one thing in any person that is them; humans are like sponges, full of experiences and feelings and things that shape them into who they are, and they are constantly being shaped into something a little bit different than what they were before. You can't pin a human to a wall, and say, "This is it. That is you, and that is all you are." God has created us as much more complex than that, and I think that is beautiful. I love that I am fascinated by many things, and that there is no end of interesting things to do and explore and observe in this life.

God is creative, and I am so, so thankful that he has made us creative, too. There is something in all of us, I believe, that has to get out; we have to be seen, we have to make something, we have to do something. "Creative" does not simply refer to the arts. Humans create new ways to think about math; humans create families; humans create systems. To create, for humans, seems only natural, and I thank God that he has given me, and those around me, the ability and desire to be more than walking hunks of flesh. We are minds, we are souls, and we have to explore. To create. To understand. To feel. To live.

My mentor, Dr. Vincent, wants me to write a short reflection about my experience in the play as a way to do some kind of writing work since I'm not writing a paper this semester. I haven't really thought about what I'm going to do, except that I want to write something and then produce it in the form of a podcast, This American Life style; Dr. Vincent and I talked about this because I have an interest in journalism.

I was talking to Jordan about it earlier, and he suggested mapping out a story. He's done several podcasts in the past, and has found that if you're going for the style of TAL then you need to have a plot and a steady narrative with a story arc in order to keep it interesting. I just need to sit down and think and write about it for a little bit, to hammer out what direction I want to take, what points I want to make, what exactly I want to say, etc.

Off the top of my head, I think I'd like to talk about how I believe that theatre is a wonderful outlet for human creativity. I heard an English professor speak in chapel the other day, and she was talking about how every human life is composed of many stories, many plot points, and, like any work of good literature, is complex; there is not just one message, or one idea being conveyed, but life is composed of variety, in emotion and in experience. Something she said that really resonated with me was that good literature should convey some kind of truth about humanity; that's what I love about theatre. There is something so unique about human beings using their minds and their bodies to convey messages about the reality of the human experience in real space and in real time.

As we close in on the actual performances, I'll be interested to see how the experience changes when we have an audience to convey these messages to. I've been in several plays before, but I've never considered it as a thought project, like I am with "The Dining Room". How do things change when we are not working only with each other's energy, but with the energy of the audience? The whole point of theatre is to perform, so what is there to be learned from the performance that's impossible to do or see without an audience? Obviously, there doesn't seem to be much point in crafting a message to convey if you never have anyone to convey it to. But what am I trying to convey? What is A.R. Gurney trying to convey?

What if we want to have people over, for cheesecake?

That's one of the lines from the play, post-censoring. "The Dining Room" has a significant amount of cursing in it, and since we are Christian students performing at a Christian school, it was decided that we should just leave the cursing out. Our director, Julia, met with Dr. Reynolds, the head of the Torrey program, and also with Dr. Todd Lewis, the chair of the Communications department, which contains the only other real theatre presence here at Biola (we don't have a theatre major or department, only a track within the Comm department.) Apparently part of the Biola theatre policy is "no cursing", and the issue had been a little bit on the fence anyway; it really doesn't detract much from the play to have it out.

Anyway, one of the lines in one of the scenes belongs to a husband, arguing with his wife about using the dining room table to work on her master's thesis; she insists that they never use the space and she can work better in there, and he counters with, "What if we want to have people over, for Chrissake?" During the first read-through of the play, I thought the word actually was, "cheesecake". We were trying for options of how to censor the word, and I threw out "cheesecake" as a joke, but it's ended up sticking. It certainly makes the line, and the character, a lot funnier, and so far every time it's been said while rehearsing that scene, there's always someone who can't keep a straight face.

Rehearsal tonight was SO MUCH FUN. I was excited for it all day; we were going to work on a scene I've been really, well, excited about. The whole cast (all six members) is in the scene, which makes it fun, and the scene itself is just plain fun. It's a child's birthday, and four of the performers are playing children about four or five years old. To start rehearsal, Julia put on some music and had us run around on stage as if we were five year olds. You can imagine how that played out; lots of running and pushing and twirling and hiding and jumping and yelling. And lots of fun.

Then, we did that again, except me and one other actor, Nick (who is a junior here at Biola and in the Torrey program) were not children; we were the adults. In the actual scene, that's how it is; four actors are the children, and Nick and I are the adults. I am the mother of the girl whose birthday it is, and he is the father of one of the boys attending. Trying to be adults while everyone else is running around being an insane child is very difficult; it was hard to keep things under control, including my own laughter.

Working on the scene itself was really, really great. When the children swell (or explode) into their talking and laughing and chanting for ice cream while Nick and I ("the adults") are trying to have a separate conversation was a challenge; Julia wants the kids to keep their energy, but that means Nick and I have to overcome that energy. Practically, at some points it was just a matter of hearing the lines and everyone's cues.

I really love this scene. I was talking with Johnny (one of the actors and the assistant director) about it after rehearsal, and he said something that I think is really dead-on; this scene embodies what so much of "The Dining Room" is as a whole. Let me explain. The basics of the scene are these: I ("Peggy") and Nick ("Ted") are both married, with kids, probably in their thirties (I think the script describes Peggy as "youngish").

When Nick enters, we soon learn that there is some kind of mutual attraction between them, although nothing has been acted on. Peggy's husband is distant and apathetic, and Ted's wife is probably more concerned with appearances of a good marriage than an actually good marriage. Ted's wife knows "about us", as Ted puts it, and she's threatening to "make everything messy." As they try to pull away from the distraction of the kids for a moment, Peggy and Ted discuss their options, although it's more like wishful thinking. In the space of a few lines, the audience sees (or at least, I hope they will see) something really sweet between them; cute, even. They're certainly a likable couple, but in the end, they aren't a couple. They never can be. And this is the realization I think they come to, especially when reminded of the reality of their children, and their responsibilities. I find something gently heartbreaking about it all; they can't abandon their children, who are just as sweet and lovable, and so they must abandon themselves and, partly, their happiness.

That's why I agree with Johnny when he says that this scene is a sort of microchasm for the entire play. On the surface, the characters are funny and maybe a little flippant; it's easy to laugh at and with them. Yet as the play progresses, and as each scene progresses in itself, we delve deeper into the reality of these people's lives, and there is much pain and sadness and loss that isn't evident on the surface. In way, I think every individual is like this. When you're just scratching the surface of someone, things aren't so serious; there is small talk and casual jokes and light conversation. But the deeper you dig, the more you find; there is a good amount of joy, but probably an equal amount of grief and pain, and all of these things shape us into who we are. Humans are like sponges, constantly absorbing experiences, feelings, ideas, that build into that ever-changing person we are always becoming.

In some ways, I haven't quite put my finger on exactly what I love about "The Dining Room". But I do love that it's about being real.

Real People, Real Spaces: The Art of Morphing

I love "The Dining Room"!

Rehearsals are going SO well. The directors are wonderful, the cast is great, and everyone works wonderfully together. I am very, very excited for this show, and so thankful to be a part of it.

At one of our earlier rehearsals, Julia, our director, asked us to read through the entire script, and ask ourselves, what is the essence of this play? There are a lot of sweet, funny moments in this play, but there are also a lot of bleak, desperate moments that find people in sad situations, and sometimes at the end of their rope. As Julia said, one could walk away from this play and say, "Wow, that was a really depressing play about a lot of unhappy people." Why is it not that? How is this (potentially controversial) play justifiable?

I'm really falling in love with "The Dining Room". One reason is that I believe while many of the characters in this play are caught in moments of desperation, or shame, or weakness, they are just utterly, utterly real. When we discussed it together at rehearsal, we agreed that if someone judged this play, and these characters, solely by the brief spaces of time in which they appear onstage, that would be a mistake. These people are purely human, and we all have moments like these, moments that we cherish, moments that we fear, moments that we wish we could forget. I ask the audience not to think only about what they see, but what the don't see; how has this person come to this place in their life? What has happened to them to make them who they are, in this moment? I feel it's almost like reading a few pages from the middle of someone's diary. It can reveal a lot about who they are, but it's not all of who they are.

Another thing that I love about this play is that everything happens in the same space - the dining room. The people change, the times change, characters and families and problems shuffle in and out of this single space. I've found those stationary spaces of our lives intriguing for some time now. Think of the house you grew up in, or your childhood bedroom, or even your car. These place, these spaces, remain virtually the same, but there's something about us that changes them; they absorb our energy, our emotions, our memories, until we can't enter into them without entering into a part of ourselves. The dining room is such a perfect room for that; it has so many roles for so many people. A place to eat, a place to study, a place to gather, a place to feel safe. Every time one of us enters that dining room, in whichever of our several characters, we change it, so that while the set and props may remain the same, the space itself, just like our characters, is constantly changing. As actors, we must morph to fit our characters; when we do, the room, and everything it represents, morphs with us.

Breath. Plunge. Splash!

Well, here we are. At the beginning of a brand new blog, all about theatre and how I experience it. Let's take a communal breath, feel the SATS energy build, and plunge in.

This semester at Biola, I got a role in a production of A.R. Gurney's "The Dining Room", and it's being put on by the honors program I'm a part of, the Torrey Honors Institute. Last year they did "Peter Pan" in the fall, and a minimalist adaptation of "Richard III" in the spring; both were wonderful, in entirely different ways.

Peter Pan was laugh-out-loud funny, and perhaps as imaginative and engaging as Mr. Barrie could have wanted it. Minimalist in a sense, mixing "reality" (i.e. the world of the Darling household and the "you must grow up" rule) with fantasy (of course, Neverland). Barrie incorporated that already, having Mr. Darling and Hook be played by the same actor; the Torrey Theatre Club made use of it through scattered props and sparse, constantly morphing sets, as well as costumes that were half fantastic, half this-looks-like-a-bunch-of-kids-dressed-up-to-play-make-believe.

Which I think is exactly the point. By limiting costumes and props and sets, the audience was invited, almost forced, to engage and imagine just as much as the performers were. One of the messages I think Barrie wanted to convey with his play was that of the importance of imagination, and not forgetting the wonder and innocence of childhood, even as adults. Children are people, too, and maybe there's something about playing make-believe that's just as real as discussing politics, or writing intelligent essays, or reading newspapers.

"Richard III" - where to start? I think it marks Shakespeare's talent as a storyteller and observer of life that his words can be set in almost any time and place and still ring true. For some reason, everyone loves to re-create Shakespeare; maybe there's some novelty in taking something from an age so different than ours and applying it to ourselves; maybe it goes back to that timeless quality of his; maybe it's just fun.

I very much enjoyed Torrey's take on it. It was cut significantly, and the actors, dressed in all black, were constantly changing characters and scenes, usually while all remaining in the same space (not a stage, but a room in the Student Union Buliding that is reminiscent of a great big living room, with wooden floors and lots of chairs and tables).

One scene I remember specifically has the queen is speaking, and she says her lines three different ways; there are two other characters she is talking to. (I hope I'm remembering this semi-correctly; to anyone who was involved, forgive any mistakes). Once she seemed pretty normal, another time she seemed fearful, and again she seemed manipulative, like she was planning something sinister. I thought it was an interesting representation of how the same words can be said in entirely different ways, conveying entirely different emotions to the audience, and each time holding an entirely different meaning. As my acting professor would say last year, and as I am learning in "The Dining Room", acting is not about the words; it's about the meaning behind the words, which is conveyed in many, many ways aside from speaking (just like how we communicate normally). That scene from Richard also seemed, to me, to be symbolic of the slow decline toward chaos that was an over-arching theme in the play; the queen began calm and confident, and moved toward distress and corruption.

I'm sorry if that was a pretty lengthy recap of my theatre experiences of last year. Actually, it's not complete; I took an acting class first semester that taught me a lot, and I'll incorporate elements from that as I write through my time in "The Dining Room".

Next, I think, I'll jot down what I've learned as far as vocal and physical movement exercises, which was the bulk of the first couple of weeks of rehearsals. Only now are we moving into scene work, and I'm curious to see how these techniques, most of which I have never done before in theatre, manifest themselves into the actual performance of the play.

Hooray for theatre!